The two other men stood with dignified airs of asshole variations. Ortega's asshole air was more dignified and thus, stronger than theirs. He let them walk out before following behind, humming a song.
Diem was tense in the conference room before the three women. The two other assholes trailed in after Ortega.
All the men stood tense in the room, bracing themselves for the verdict.
Salome stood after a long beat of silence and cleared her throat.
"Mike Bain, Gary Kross, and Ortega Dyke—exit's that way. Diem Clinton, congratulations. You've got the job."
Ortega still stood when the two dejected men passed him and made for the door. Dazed. 'I think they just didn't give me the job. And gave it to someone else.
No way I heard that right. This must be some sort of fucking joke.'
He looked to Laura—and somehow started finding her constant smirk annoying. What was so fucking funny?
Salome gave him a glare that asked what the hell he was still doing there.
Waiting for them to announce the real results, of course. He looked around their faces. Nothing gave them away. No way this was real. A fucking test—that's what this shit was.
He impressed them. He was the best. He was an asset. How could they cast him away? Were they stupid?
Suddenly, Velvet, Salome, and Laura didn't seem as fair as he'd thought them initially. They were all just the same—aristocrats favoring the privileged over people like him.
He left the room before he lost it completely. He wasn't going to stay and cause a scene like some delusional fool.
He reached the elevator. 'And to think I had so many plans for this place...' The elevator stood before him, its many buttons mocking. Goddamn it—he still didn't know how to operate it.
He went around the corridor, but it was empty. 'Where to from here now? What next?'
He felt the throb building behind his left eye. Clutching the side of his head, he slid down against the wall. 'Am I going to be poor and indebted forever?'
'No, no, no.' Ortega was starting to feel this was becoming his reality the more he denied it. Shame burned through his chest and made him wince. His earlier glee now felt so fucking laughable. The look on that bastard's face couldn't have been more foretelling.
Footsteps. Someone was coming. Fuck.
He wiped his tears, stood up hurriedly, straightened, sniffed.
Laura appeared—and caught him with the back of his palm still against his eye. He snorted.
What now?
He looked anywhere but at her, though she was studying him with that small, unreadable smile. Now that he saw her up close and in full glory, he realized this was torture. She was banging hot—long legs, lips like sin, that confident chill that made the sterile air come alive with the deep, burning scent of her.
His anger had quieted now. Still, even putting himself in their shoes, he saw no reason they'd hire someone else over him. He surveyed her in silence—cold as stone.
"What?" His tone was rude. He couldn't care less.
"I have a question."
He shifted, pocketing a fist.
"Ortega Dyke—from what family?"
His jaw ticked.
"That's my business," he growled.
She smiled. Ortega felt himself about to explode.
He cut the wire before he detonated and nodded to the elevator. "Show me how to open it."
She still stared, and now there was a sudden, mad urge to fuck that smug expression off her face. Somehow imagining her spent under him made him feel better.
"Fine." He started feeling the elevator's edges for the damn button. Damn touchscreen elevator. Damn rich-ass company. Damn everything!
He felt a light tap on his shoulder and turned slowly, frustration burning in his eyes.
What now?
His gaze swept from her annoyingly pretty face to her outstretched arm. She held a platinum ID card—with his profile.
"You might wanna have this," she said, "so you can check with us next week."
He frowned. She sighed.
"You're hired."